


Her

by romanticalgirl



Category: Hornblower (TV), Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-07 19:48:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/752368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For <a href="http://black-hound.livejournal.com/profile"><img class="i-ljuser-userhead"/></a><a class="i-ljuser-username" href="http://black-hound.livejournal.com/"></a><b>black_hound</b> who wanted more girls.</p><p>Originally posted 1-3-07</p>
    </blockquote>





	Her

**Author's Note:**

> For [](http://black-hound.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://black-hound.livejournal.com/)**black_hound** who wanted more girls.
> 
> Originally posted 1-3-07

“Tell me about her.”

Horatio glances up from the book in his hands and watches Marie as she stares out the window at the snow-covered grounds. “Her?”

“Your wife. Maria?”

He looks down, the print on the page swimming before his eyes. His crimes of words and deeds have been burned into his mind since those days aboard _Lydia_ when he allowed imagination to grant him boons that life itself would not. He has forsaken Maria far more and long before he ever went to Marie’s bed.

“What do you wish to know?”

“What is she like?”

“Maria is what every man should want in a wife.” There is no animosity in his words, no mockery. If anyone deserves to be mocked, it is him, for having this wife and treating her as he does, unable to stop. “Loving, devoted, fertile. She bends herself to her husband’s will and whim and does not hate him, whatever crimes against her he might commit.”

“Not at all a biased opinion, ‘Oratio.” She smiles at him, her face lined with experience and knowledge, well-versed by now in the lies he tells to punish himself, equally well-versed in the truths. “Tell me what _she_ is like, not what she models herself to be for you.”

“Truth be told, I do not know Maria well. I married her out of a sense of duty and honor and she is all those things I said. The girl I knew in the boarding house was sweet and trying so very hard to be kind, even at the cost of her own well-being. I put her in an impossible situation, and we took the only recourse left to us. But who she is…well, unless she is that girl I was allowed a glimpse of before she became my wife, I do not know any more than she wishes to show me.”

“She was a good mother?”

He shifts in the chair, uncertain of what to say, a glimpse of Maria as she was carrying baby Maria, swollen and uncomfortable and yet so very happy flashing through his mind. “She was. She will be again.”

“That makes you sad.” She moves from the window to sit at the ottoman at his feet, her hands spread delicately on her skirts. “Why?”

“I do not think of the children.” He turns his head, unwilling to look in her eyes any longer. “Maria is a good woman who made the unfortunate choice of marrying me.”

“Do you think she thinks herself unfortunate, ‘Oratio?”

“It is not what she thinks that matters, Marie.” He says her name softly, reaching out to stroke a thumb across her jaw line, offering her a hint of a smile as her lips part for him. “Only what is.”

“And what is?” She leans in, her lips warm and pliant as he kisses her softly. “’Oratio?”

“Just this,” he assures her, kissing her again, the rush of danger pulsing in his blood. “Right now. Just this.”

**

They lie together, Horatio doing his best to fool himself that no one knows of their midnight trysts, that he falls asleep between her thighs and wakes beside her in the haunting glow of coming dawn. Marie touches him gently, stroking at frown lines and battle scars, caressing skin weathered by the sea.

This is their life now, here tucked away in the chateau as Bush and Brown make ready their escape, and lately when Marie looks at him, her eyes knowing and innocent all at once, and he cannot help but offer her a smile. She loves him, and he sees in it the same love Maria has for him, but different – so different – in that it is accepting and not expecting, taking only what he can give her, refusing any promises that might slip past his lips in passion.

“Tell me about her.”

“Maria?”

“No. The woman you’re in love with.”

“Barbara.” The name slips past his lips without thought or permission, his body mutinying against him. He sees the flash in Marie’s eyes, as he has seen it in Maria’s, despite his need to believe that she does not know him, cannot see. He hides his traitorous eyes and lips against Marie’s neck, tasting powder and sweat and something he cannot define on her skin.

“Barbara.” Her name sounds different with Marie’s accent, even the most mundane somehow more exotic, more erotic. Horatio groans softly, unable to stop the sound, though he keeps his hips still, refuses to push against her, to give into the demands of his body at the thought, at the sound of her name. “What is she like?”

He begins to tell her of _Lydia_ , of Barbara’s skin and bravery, of Coiba and the heat. He tells her of the things one speaks of and a few that he should not, tells her of frantic kisses and desire, of duty and honor and letting go. He speaks of Barbara in terms that mean everything to him – loyal and steadfast and strong, determined and clearheaded and decisive – and knows he sounds less a man in love than a sailor.

Marie smiles and shakes her head. “You speak of things that make most men happy as though they are a crime and speak of things that most men desire only in themselves as if they are a life’s wish. Oh, ‘Oratio.” Her laughter bathes his skin and he raises, looking down into her eyes, smiling at the delight that flashes in them. “You are a most delightful man.”

He kisses her, unable to resist the laughing, parted lips, the warm acceptance of her body and her heart. “I am a horrible man,” he assures her, reaching down to fit himself inside her again. “And you will be well rid of me.”

She sobers at his words, her eyes darkening, though her smile does not fade. She shakes her head, closing her eyes as he slides deeper. “To go back to your wife and the woman you love.”

“The woman I cannot have.”

She looks at him again at that. “You have me.”

**

There is time, after the Admiralty and after Richard Arthur and after Barbara - _his_ Barbara now – to go back to the church without Frere at his elbow and stare down at the carved stone, to trace the letters with a love and respect he knows he did not give her in life. Even in death, Maria gave him what she could and he finds himself without words, even the faint prayer he tried to offer her before.

He closes his eyes - _Maria Hornblower_ , beloved wife and mother – and kneels beside the grave, fingers grazing grass. He pictures her as she was and as she wanted to be for him, and his chest constricts. He did love her, as much as he allowed himself the illusion of love. He glances over to the two small graves beside her and then back to her.

He does not hear her voice, he does not believe in fairy tales and ghost stories and nonsense, but he imagines her as she was, as the young woman he met and knew and genuinely liked. He imagines her voice, asking questions with such deference.

_Tell me about her._

“Marie?” He smiles, haunted for all his disbelief in ghosts. “She was lovely and warm, golden and soft.” He says the words aloud, uncertain if they say what he means or if the impressions refuse to translate. He brushes the headstone again and grief comes to a head, no longer buried in the maelstrom of his life. “She reminded me of you.”  



End file.
